Alexander Skrumbis

Dead Generals

Napoleon's tomb was equal parts overwhelming and underwhelming. It seemed strange, at first, standing above the pit where his casket lay, that such a notable figure lay dead and motionless in a rather plain looking box. As I've mentioned, the sheer significance and pull of Napoleon made sense to me, why people like Marius and his father might be drawn to him, and why men like Marius' grandfather may be terrified of him. But not even the beautiful wall carvings could elevate him in his final state. In fact, they made him seem somehow weaker, as though he were somehow still pleading for significance, even though he had nothing to do with his burial site. 

We visited the military museum afterwards, by far one of my favorite museums we’ve visited. Military history is fascinating to me, the sheer volume of pointless conflicts that have shaped history is terrifying, and the Napoleonic era is rife with the possibility of history changing at the slightest change. I got a real feel for how much of a game changer Napoleon was for France, beyond the simple fact that he won a lot. His changes to the military were significant, based on merit, and erased after his death. 

The conflict between Monarchists and Bonapartists seems odd, beyond being carved deeply into subconscious bias and belief, as Napoleon seems like everything a monarchist would want, beyond circumstances of birth. Reading some of the history in the museum, and it showed all the failures of previous kings before we reached Napoleon. There were victories, yes, against a failing Spain, but many failures too. Failures that helped prompt the revolution. Marius’ grandfather being so utterly enshrined against Napoleon feels more comical the more I learn about the monarchy. Incompetency and decadence. And the Bourbons tried to repeat that. I thought it even stranger, that Napoleon III was elected by the Liberals, Victor Hugo included. Bonapartism seem like an easy pull for monarchists.

Speaking on ideology, I really don’t understand how someone could be loyal to the French state when it seemed the French state was always changing. Javert’s character is a fascinating one, but one that comes with questions. Unlike Marius, his grandfather, or even the ABC, Javert seems to have no loyalty beyond loyalty to the law. With Monarchism, you have reverence to the idea of Kings and bloodlines. With Bonapartism, you have loyalty to the perceived greatness of one man. Republicans believe in the people voting for their own interests. Javert has no pull to any of these, only the idea of the “law”. The greatness of dead men does not appeal to him, neither do the dreams of the future. Napoleon invented the civil code, so perhaps he’d have some reverence there, and yet his current loyalty is to the regime that replaced him. Javert crumbling under Jean Valjean’s kindness is one thing, but I wonder if he would break down regardless as France continued its back and forth between Republic and Empire.

Back to the subject of graves, I also visited the largest cemetery in Paris. Père Lachaise It was more of a personal mission, though perhaps relevantly I found quite a bit to do with French revolutionary sentiment. I visited Nestor Makhno's burial site, housed in a large building called the Columbarium. Really it was more of a covering than a building, but regardless, it housed an impressive number of deceased. I wandered for a while, taking in again, the humbling nature of death, before I found his. It was a small little square with a metal image of his face. 

I should probably explain who he was, and how I found him particularly relevant. Similar to Napoleon, Nestor Makhno was a military leader emerging through revolution. Where they differ, is Makhno was an anarchist, while Napoleon declared himself emperor.  He founded the Ukrainian Black Army, an agrian, yet leftist, worker’s revolutionary militia in conflict with both the Red and White Army’s of the Russian Civil War  Whether Makhno would have kept his revolutionary leanings in event of victory isn’t something I can say– he didn’t win, and was exiled by the communists to Paris, ironically as Lenin once was. 

But I found his relevancy to this class not just in his contrast to Napoloeon, but for what he stood for, and for what he still stands for. One thing about Paris, is that although their revolutions never truly succeed, they never really fail either. Victor Hugo makes it clear in Les Misérables that his view of history is that it always moves forward to some ideal utopia, even in times of great tyranny. That perspective makes sense for a Frenchmen to have, I think, because for progressive minded people in France, when you view the entire history, failed revolutions still inspire. They still make clear the demands of the people, and threaten the current hierarchy. Makhno’s grave, as small and insignificantly placed as it was, was covered in flowers, graffiti, and even a poster for a blogger advertising desertion for soldiers fighting in the current Ukranian-Russo war. 

There are no anarchists in America, yet they still exist in France. I understood something about France at that moment, something about Paris. Revolution never dies there. 

People try to kill it, though. 20,000 people were killed in the Paris commune, and next I found myself standing at the single most significant memorial for that massacre in Paris, and it was a plaque on a wall. Again, there were flowers, and I did see an old couple visit. But it was pathetic. All those people killed, some grand, mad dream, and all it gets is a plaque? But Napoleon III gets a grand tomb. It was baffling. 

I thought back to the ABC students in Les Misérables. How varied they were, and relatable. How I saw myself in pieces of them, and tried to match who best I was in terms of my viewpoints. And then I thought about how in times of potential revolution, I probably would do something stupid and get killed, and hopefully get a plaque. I’d rather get a plaque, at least, than a sad looking box, or self-indulgent statue for people to gawk at.

The Louvre (and a Short Rant About Water)

The Louvre may have been THE highlight for this trip. What is there to say that doesn’t speak for itself? (I guess we’ll find out because I’m gonan write a blog about) it One of the grandest collections of art on the planet, and you’re given free roam of it. That’s pretty good.

It’s also pretty exhausting. The French don’t really believe in water fountains, I don’t think, which is especially tragic when the only two places to purchase water in the museum have lines comparable to the one in front of the Mona Lisa? But it was such a rare opportunity I persevered, my throat dry and my head pounding with a headache. I first headed to the section with all the typical goodies, the Mona Lisa, Liberty Leading the People, and The Coronation of Napoleon. They were all great, not at all disappointing like I’ve heard some say. The Mona Lisa was small, yes, but still, pretty amazing to see in person. But The Coronation of Napoleon, my god. The sheer detail is awe-inspiring. It should be comedic, this pompous little man superseding the pope in a silly outfit. But it’s not, in fact it’s beautiful. I will never not be shaken by the sheer propaganda of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Liberty Leading the People was equally inspiring. I’m no expert on visual art, and certainly not paintings, but there’s something about seeing the brush strokes in real life, versus in a picture or a print that make it pop more. This grand image of revolution, of surging forth over death and cries of war– this made for some pretty good propaganda as well. I almost bought some merch, and probably would have if what they offered in the gift shop was any better. I thought of the ABC, and the barricade, and the facing of certain death. The image of that flag waving in the musical, as shots are fired, is seared into my brain.

It would be remiss though, not to mention the somewhat strange depiction of her breast being out? And where does this image of female revolutionary leadership come from, the french seem a little enamored with it– see the Statue of Liberty – when women weren’t exactly seen as equals in the revolution. Better than what they had before, sure, but see Marie Antoinette, or Hugo’s rejection of women in the ABC or sidelining of Éponine for examples on how even progressives weren’t so great on that front.

I spotted this fun painting, though I can’t remember when. I was immediately reminded of Monseigneur in A Tale of Two Cities. The painting isn’t even unkind to the subject, it makes no statements about his character, so I have no idea what the artists' intention was. But this fat, pompous man attempting to appear regal atop his horse, while a whole group of servants surrounds him, is hilarious. I thought of Monseigneur requiring four men to serve him chocolate. They're even all in uniform! Heck, not just the clothes, but their hair is cut the same. It’s just so absurdly unnecessary, and more a display of wealth than it even is a luxury. There’s a servant here carrying an umbrella for him, despite the fact that he is on a horse and his servant isn’t. Is the only purpose of his servant walking to emphasize the wealth disparity? What’s the point? It’s such a profoundly comedic display of the indulgence of this kind of wealth. I wonder if this man commissioned this painting himself. I hope he did, it’s so ridiculous to imagine he thought this was a good idea.

On an unrelated topic, rather amazingly we found our Metro station is the very start of the 1968 riots, Les Goeblins. Every time I stepped down there, I somehow missed that this was the very heart of the revolution that wasn’t to be. Metros make sense, I realized. In the absence of the narrower streets that once belonged to Paris before Napoleon III decided to transform it, it’s a nice, easier place to defend. Plus, the tunnels can take you anywhere– there’s plenty of places to retreat to if you can’t defend yourself.

Also near us is the Latin Quarter, where there are narrower streets, and I can see barricades being far easier to throw up here. I think the barricades themselves, as do I think 1968, are a particularly interesting way to do revolution. The ABC attempts to inspire, not overthrow the government themselves. Essentially, the object is getting your message out, and survival. What’s amazing is that they don’t back down, even when there is no chance of victory. These young men died for a lost cause. It’s inspiring, it’s stupid, and it’s a piece of history I won’t forget.

Spooky Tunnels and Such

The sewers were certainly an interesting place to visit, to say the least. I had never quite imagined what a proper sewer looked like, and it was far more industrial appearing than I realized. In Les Misérables, I imagined it to be, for lack of a better word, far sleeker? Or perhaps just less busy in terms of pipes and whirring machinery. Obviously sewers now have more modern amenities, but with the industrial revolution, one could imagine sewers then were absolutely crowded with machinery and new pipes. I guess I had a weirdly more romantic image of it in my head? Certainly reinforced by the musical, after watching it whenever I thought of it I gave it the same ominous green glow, but seeing it in person really hammered in what an ugly, bleak, and smelly place it is. I really internalized what a terrible experience what wandering around in there would be like. Well lit, and further enough away from the actual intensely smelling portions of the Paris sewer, it was still damp, disgusting, and I walked through the same section on accident like twice. For Thénardier to be lurking down there? I’m not sure how he found Valjean. I liked how Hugo emphasized that Valjean got kind of lucky in picking a direction to head in. In fact, that whole section I appreciated for how richly descriptive it was. That kind of section is something I like to write, absolutely over the top with emotionally evocative imagery, even if that emotion it is evoking is disgust. Victor Hugo’s particular interest in sewers was interesting, and I do wonder if he went down there for any extended period of time. His dual interest and utter disgust with it is a fascinating juxtaposition, though I cannot say I was as receptive to the dueling ideas when I was down there. Perhaps it was because I ended up paying for my own ticket, but I was mostly bewildered that anyone would make a sewer into a museum? Stepping back, I can see the inspiring aspect to how important sewers were, considering they were still using chamber pots in parts of the world, as we saw rather helpfully in the London house we visited, and how both the inevitable traits of a sewer, and the lack of care in their implementation can be disgusting.

Speaking of damp, kind of gross underground places, we also visited the catacombs. I loved it, personally, as morbid and weird as that may be. Sobering, to be in the presence of so many dead. Not in the way that cemeteries are sobering, but a deeper, more profound sense of death, at least for me. I adore sentiments of revolution, but knowing that many of the bones were victims of the terror, I understood the fear of that kind of thing. Still, I think reactionary actions and responses are also deeply disturbing, but that’s a topic for another day. Lets get back to the dead bodies. 


What a weird thing to do. Stack a bunch of bones up. Reading about how visitors, including royalty, would stroll through the catacombs was hilarious, and another reminder that people in the past were just that. People. Tourists into the same weird crap we are. I liked the idea that both some Austrian prince and I, separated by centuries, once happily trotted down a hall of skulls that stared blankly at us.

Folly of Versailles

Versailles was equal part beautiful, inspiring, and utterly frustrating to me. The former two, I think, are the intended effect for guests, and to its credit, it succeeds tenfold. Immediately striking is the main entrance, beautiful architecture with roofs gilded with gold. Equally striking is the horde you surge through, of star struck guests ogling with pictures and poses. I cannot pretend I was not one of them, I absolutely was, but a growing sense of discomfort initially began as I had the subtle thought: In its heyday few of us would have been permitted inside beyond being servants.

The inside felt just as grand as the outside, and in many cases, succeeded it. The apartments were a fun reminder how small people used to be, with beds that were about as long as a twin. In this section, I was struck by how much less indulgent I thought it was going to be. That’s not to say they weren’t indulgent, only less so than expected. There was little ominous or immediately offensive to my sense of justice.

The room I stepped into next, however, was more than a little uncomfortable. Dark walls painted with images of weaponry, the dimly lit connection to the bathhouses did in fact feel ominous. None of it was intentional, but the broken bodies of animal statues felt foreboding and to me, hearkened to the bloodshed of that era.

The Napoleon rooms, rooms on the other hand, were delightful. This was my next foray, after getting turned around and buying a macaroon (Marie Antoinette flavored???) Napoleon is a fascinating figure to me, especially the path of his ascent from an officer to housing himself in Versailles. The incredible journey he took to get there, to crown himself as emperor, it’s just not something that had ever been done. I really like the way those rooms were done, keeping that in mind. Each year was given its own room, giving further weight to the sheer amount of things he accomplished. Of course, he was still a tyrant and a warmonger, and the gorgeous paintings reflected that, with young men sent to fight and die for him. But there is an undeniable pull and glory for that sort of thing, and I certainly felt that in that room.

I could understand why young men like Marius could be swept away by the sheer grandiose of the man, even after he died. Napoleon wasn't just a great general I realized. He was a master propagandist.

Versailles is good for that. Understanding how there is an attraction to this sort of thing. Louis XIV had a similar pull, his logo looks sleek, even modern. The luxury and glory of kings and emperors within a vacuum can feel inspiring, beautiful. Again, you understand why men can become royalists, whether it's poor farmers who are kept in the dark, or wealthier men like Marius' grandfather. There's security in a sun king, security that the mess of a mob can't provide. The paintings can feel larger than life, the architecture can take you to other worlds, and the logo of King Louise XIV can look stylish on a pair of 16 euro socks– but it’s all toxic and destructive. It’s spending money on gold roofs while peasants starve, it’s crowning yourself emperor based on the merits of being the best at killing large groups of people before they kill you. It’s plunging nations into debt and war and dragging the people along with you.

These thoughts bustled to the front of my mind as I shuffled through the crowded, sweaty corridors on the way to the hall of mirrors. People pushed, shoved, and even stalled to take pictures, all to catch a glimpse of the height of decadence and luxury, that was withheld from a starving nation. The rooms up there were extravagant, almost too much so. It looked wildly uncomfortable to live in, not in the physical sense, but just the sheer glamour was nauseating (or maybe that was just the smell of the crowd, but I digress).

Finally, though, I found myself in the hall of mirrors. It was beautiful. Bigger than I thought it would be, just in the sense, I have no idea how they were able to cram so much inside this palace. Again, I liked the beauty of it, but something stunk. And this time I was pretty confident it wasn’t BO.

Before entering the garden, I entered the gift shop. They put the two next to each other, because of course, so it’s not like I wasn’t going to go in. I mentioned socks earlier, but there was so much more than that. There were cheap plastic figures of Louise XVI, Napoleon cosplaying cat pillows, replica pistols, beanies, tote bags, shirts, even an 80 euro plastic key. It was all so ridiculous to me. Here was a palace, a monarchy, so devoted to itself and its luxury it prompted a messy, angry revolution, and here we are selling its merch? I don’t expect lessons in history to ever go heeded, but man, Versailles truly underscored that. It’s not the first place in France I’ve seen do that either, I’ve seen Marie Antoinette mangas for instance, but Louise XVI action figures were such a blatantly bewildering sight I'm not sure if I’ve yet recovered.

After that dizzying experience, I got to enjoy the majesty of the garden. Well, first I grabbed a bite to eat (the worst meal I had in Paris), but then I enjoyed the majesty of the garden. Not much to say other than it was really nice. Wandering through the hedges was like entering a forest, the long middle walkway gave a nice view to the lake, and I enjoyed the little areas where various pillars and fountains were constructed.

And then I left, feeling a little less angry, with food in my stomach and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in my hand.

Paris vs London

Arriving in Paris, I cannot say I initially found it too different from London. The weather, ironically, has been worse, but otherwise that same sense of conflicting old and new architecture persisted, as did the wonders of public transit. But after a brief period of accumulation, even the streets feel different. For one, they feel wider here. While London had tighter streets, Paris has confusing roads that go different directions on the same side. It’s all very fascinating stuff.

Of course, the actually interesting differences are the people. The cultures are strangely similar and completely at odds. For instance, with broad strokes, one could consider both the French and English persistent in the upkeep of their appearance. Both put on an air of what is to be English or French, and hold their heads higher above those who don’t. But the English want to appear posh, while the French want to appear, for lack of a better word, cool. Berets vs caps. It makes sense in context with how their histories unfolded, too. Of course the more hip French are going to buck authority and be attracted to new ideas, and of course the posh well put together Englishmen are going to take their time, and stick with their old principles. Purely subjective– but I give it to the French on that one.

Speaking on culture, I can’t say I find the French very rude? Everyone has been very nice to me, except for when they don’t realize I don’t speak French and just think I’m being rude.

Furthermore, another rather exciting difference I discovered between London and Paris, is the food. I liked food in London, I really did. But French food is a different beast. With a bakery on every corner, I’ve eaten more pastries in a few days than in my entire life. And it’s all sooo good. I have no idea how much butter they put in those things, and I’m not sure that I want to know. But hey, no preservatives, right?

It’s not purely French food either, there’s so much here. Especially near my apartment, there’s a long road north of us littered with restaurants and cafes. I was happy to find a number of Greek restaurants, including a Greek crêpe place. I visited a truly fantastic French-Japanese fusion restaurant, and it was life changing. I still think London wins on the burger front, but man. Nothing else really compares.

In short, London was great. Paris is better.

Lost in London

My first time in the UK, and I have to say- London certainly left its impression. It’s not the first time I’ve seen anachronistic architecture like this- old buildings made with long dead architectural practices sharing streets and skylines with contemporary glass structures- but it is the most drastic example of this kind of juxtaposition I’ve ever come across, and for lack of a better word, it’s really freaking cool. I didn’t think my first time viewing a castle would involve skyscrapers in the background?

It also makes the connection to our reading stronger, as the tight streets and oppressive castles and courthouses of Dickens’ day not only still exist, but thrive under the transformation of the modern day. It’s not a one to one translation, and how could it be (thank god, we don’t need people emptying their chamber pots at night), but there’s enough of the old world left that if you squint just right and catch the old buildings at the right light, you can imagine the London fog roll in over people in hats and coats amid carriages. Just gotta try to not think about what the smell would’ve been like.

This makes simply wandering around London special, something I became somewhat of an expert on after breaking my glasses (did I sit on them? yes). Leaving the group early, I began my odyssey to an optician (there are a LOT of them here). The journey there was nothing special, about twenty or so minutes of walking with obfuscated vision that rendered even the grandest sights into a blurry mess in front of me, but after a couple journeys back and forth I was equipped with the ability to once again take in the sights. This, of course, wasted the day, but my journey back to join the class allowed me to soak in the same sights I was supposed to see earlier. It also gave me a clearer understanding of where things were located. I found a rather large brick castle like structure that boldly stated “Dickens lived here for a time,” stumbled across the same Cheshire Cheese the class had visited, and found a courthouse with rather intimidating lion statues and a guard that looked annoyed at my presence. I took in Fleet Street as a lost pup, and I cannot say that that experience was entirely unwelcome.

It also makes the connection to our reading stronger, as the tight streets and oppressive castles and courthouses of Dickens’ day not only still exist, but thrive under the transformation of the modern day. It’s not a one to one translation, and how could it be (thank god, we don’t need people emptying their chamber pots at night), but there’s enough of the old world left that if you squint just right and catch the old buildings at the right light, you can imagine the London fog roll in over people in hats and coats amid carriages. Just gotta try to not think about what the smell would’ve been like.

This makes simply wandering around London special, something I became somewhat of an expert on after breaking my glasses (did I sit on them? yes). Leaving the group early, I began my odyssey to an optician (there are a LOT of them here). The journey there was nothing special, about twenty or so minutes of walking with obfuscated vision that rendered even the grandest sights into a blurry mess in front of me, but after a couple journeys back and forth I was equipped with the ability to once again take in the sights. This, of course, wasted the day, but my journey back to join the class allowed me to soak in the same sights I was supposed to see earlier. It also gave me a clearer understanding of where things were located. I found a rather large brick castle like structure that boldly stated “Dickens lived here for a time,” stumbled across the same Cheshire Cheese the class had visited, and found a courthouse with rather intimidating lion statues and a guard that looked annoyed at my presence. I took in Fleet Street as a lost pup, and I cannot say that that experience was entirely unwelcome.


When I later read Dickens’ and saw mention of that very same street, I felt almost as though I had become privy to some insider knowledge, or some kind of inside joke I could share with Dickens. Of course, it’s just a street, but since so very little fiction occurs in Long Beach, California, it was nice to get a reference. Bookpacking, in essence, is getting those little references. These small pieces of context that may seem insignificant when you’re an ocean and the width of a country away, but feel far more impactful when you actually have the opportunity to enjoy them. Tellsons’, the hanging sign inside Dickens’ house are just little things, but they’re also giving you insight into Dickens’ as a real person. The museum in Dickens’ house does an exemplary job of this, not just showing you his stuff, as one might expect, but explaining how he lived, and how the house functioned. I think it’s easy to forget that the people of the past were, well, real people, not too unlike ourselves, that lived regular lives. As an aspiring writer, it is rather grounding to step through the same areas that Dickens’ did, and take in the fact that at some point he was just some hopeful would-be fiction writer like me. Only I can’t look out the window and see a castle when I’m writing. Furthermore, visiting places like that Victorian house, make it far easier to visualize how the people in fiction such as Dickens’ or Hugo’s lived. I hadn’t quite internalized how dark life purely by candlelight was– there was a sense of eeriness in that house so intense I thought the experience would turn out to be partly haunted. But of course, the people living at the time wouldn’t know any different, so these novels don’t go in too depth about how dark everything is. It’s just a piece of context that enhances the experience of reading, alienating you slightly from this world, and yet making your connection to it stronger as you get a fuller sense of how these characters lived as people.

A little more firmly modern is the culinary scene, something I took immediate advantage of. It’s impossible to relate it to the literature, other than to underscore just how much it has changed. But it’s too damn good not to talk about. Firstly, I was surprised by how many coffee shops there were, I had expected them to drink less coffee and more tea, but as a typical college level caffeine addict, I found it rather welcoming. But more than that, no longer is London home to merely boiled cabbage and indiscriminate meats, instead you have a global culinary experience. The global sense of London cannot be understated. America, for all its flaws, is classically known as the melting pot of cultures, an iconic immigrant nation. But cultural identities in America tend to melt away and assimilate into the greater culture. That’s not to say there aren’t cultural identities in the US, only that London, in comparison, feels truly global. This creates this global food identity, that provides an excellent replacement to beans on toast (sorry Britain). The Borough Market, where we visited, was one of my favorite places, because of the sheer amount of food you could consume, from quite a few different cultural backgrounds. Funnily enough, though, my favorite food in London was thoroughly American. A cheeseburger. My god, I wish we had a Bleecker’s back home.